A Fine Fix Read online

  He turned to me, his eyes changed to a flat avocado green. He crossed the room to retrieve another stack of caked-on dishes and resumed his dishwashing with a silent vengeance.

  Puzzled, I continued to stare at him. In my mind, I visualized a black-and-white print ad of Bradley on a sailboat, the wind whipping his hair, his eyes squinting into the sun. The apron he wore and the scouring pad in his fist just didn’t fit with that vision.

  “What?” I asked.

  He glared at me. “I thought you were different, Trudie. I really thought you were the type to see beyond a person’s appearance.”

  “Huh?”

  “You don’t know? You really don’t know.” His face reddened and the veins in his temples pulsed. “All my life, I’ve been judged by this face. Homecoming Prince, Prom King, Best-Looking Senior in the yearbook.”

  “So what’s wrong with that?” If I had his looks, at least the female version of him, my life would have been so much easier.

  “What’s wrong with it?” His gaze shot to the ceiling. “This face gets me anything I want. And I’m not just talking about women. I’m talking about jobs. In a face-to-face interview with three candidates, I’m the winner every time. Waiting in line to get into a club, I’m escorted right through the crowd. In a busy restaurant, I always get served first.”

  He turned to me and wiped his hands again. “It’s not right. Why should I be treated differently than anyone else? Why should my life be easier than yours?”

  He turned back to the sink and began scrubbing furiously.

  “Bradley.” I threw the dish towel across my shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  “People can’t see to see beyond the surface.” He took the sprayer and rinsed soap suds from a serving platter. “I just can’t get away from that man.”

  “What man?”

  As if someone had demi-glazed the air between us, everything appeared distorted.

  “My father. I will never get away from him. I look in the mirror, and there he is.”

  “Bradley, listen to me. You are not your father,” I said, beginning to understand.

  “No, I am not my father. I don’t want to use my assets the way he did. He destroyed my mother. He destroyed our family.”

  I was speechless.

  “Why do I work for a bartending agency?” he continued. “I get hired sight unseen by the client. And hopefully, if a client requests me specifically, it’s because I’m a good bartender, not because of my looks.”

  I nodded. My whole life, I’d been judged by my body, made fun of at school as Fatty Fine, always chosen last for kickball or relay teams, never invited to the prom. I’d always wanted to be pretty and thin and popular like the other girls, get invited to parties, asked out on dates. If someone as attractive and desirable as Bradley wasn’t happy with himself, then my entire view of the world was skewed.

  “I’m sorry. And I really do appreciate your help. I don’t know what I would have done without you tonight. For what it’s worth, I would hire you again in a heartbeat.” I smiled. “And not because of your looks.”

  As he smiled back at me, his eyes returned to that Mountain Dew sparkle, and his dimple caused my body to go limp as a slice of cheese on a tuna melt.

  AT ONE IN the morning, after two hours spent cleaning up, Bradley and I loaded the van and parted ways. I headed to the district station, located only a few blocks away. Thank goodness Detective Goldman had given me his card with the address or I wouldn’t have known where to go. It had been a long day. I was running on watered-down consommé, weak and lifeless. But I had to get Zach. I pictured him sitting at a battered, graffiti-covered wood table, a bare light bulb dangling above his head and Goldman grilling him with questions. Maybe the detective had brought in another officer, and they were playing Good Cop-Bad Cop, trying to get poor Zach to spill his guts. Not that he had any guts to spill. I stepped down harder on the accelerator to make it through the intersection before the light turned red.

  I pulled into a small parking lot behind the station and slid my van into a space next to a police cruiser, wondering if it belonged to Goldman. As I opened my door, I was tempted to bash it into his passenger door. Heck, the cruiser was white. My van was white. How could they trace me? Then I thought better of it. There were probably security cameras out here, and I needed to rescue Zach and get us both home.

  I grabbed my purse. I might need bail money. But no, Zach was just there for questioning. Goldman wouldn’t have arrested him. Not sweet Zach who didn’t even like the violent act of tenderizing a steak with a mallet.

  Maybe because this part of town, with all its embassies and wealthy home owners, didn’t get much crime, the station was quiet and practically empty, only two of the dozen or so desks staffed at this hour of the night. I approached the officer at the front desk. He was leaning back in his chair working on a crossword puzzle, his feet propped up.

  “I’m here to pick up Zachary Cohen. Where can I find him?”

  The man shifted his eyes from the puzzle to me and motioned his head to the back of the station.

  I spotted Zach sitting on a bench against the wall leaning forward, elbows on his knees and head in hands, fast asleep.

  I sat down next to him and touched his arm. “Zach?”

  His head popped up. “Wha…?”

  “Zach, it’s me. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “What kind of questions did they ask you? Why did they bring you down here?”

  Zach peered down at the floor and shook his head. “Not now, Trudie. It’s late. I need some sleep, and so do you. Can we do this tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” Something was wrong, but Zach had been through enough for today. For now, my questions would have to wait. “C’mon. I’ll take you home.”

  As we stood up, Detective Goldman emerged from an office, his jacket draped over his arm. He grinned at me. “Well, Miss Fine. Nice to see you again so soon.”

  So I was Miss Fine again. “Sorry I can’t say the same about you.” I attempted to give him the “evil eye,” a menacing glare that Bubby, my maternal grandmother, had taught me to execute when classmates mocked my plump figure. The tactic had kept them from bothering me, but this time, I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to scare the detective away.

  Goldman chuckled.

  “What’s so funny? Are you laughing at me?” I balled my fists and felt my face flush.

  “No. Not at all.” He continued to grin, his head tilted to one side as if examining me. “It’s just that you’ve got this spunk, this fire inside you. Don’t lose it.”

  No guy had ever spoken to me this way. I didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or to kick him in the shins.

  The three of us left the station together and headed to the parking lot.

  “You’re not parked back here, are you?” Goldman asked.

  “Of course I’m parked here. I had to pick up Zach, didn’t I?”

  “Didn’t you see the sign, ‘Authorized Vehicles Only’? Violators are subject to towing and a hundred-dollar fine.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. It’s one-thirty in the morning, and there are only three vehicles in the lot. You knew I was coming to pick up Zach, so my van is an authorized vehicle.” I huffed across the lot, pressing the button on my remote to unlock the doors, Zach following at my heels. I turned to the detective. “Besides, if I’d parked on the street, a young woman alone at this time of night, you probably would have had another crime on your hands.”

  “Clever defense, Trudie,” he said. He stopped at the dark, unmarked car a few spaces down from my van. Good thing I hadn’t bashed the cruiser.

  Goldman winked at me. “I do like that fire.”

  Chapter Five

  The ringing wouldn’t stop. I heard it far in the distance. The sound moved closer and louder, and I realized it was my cell phone. I lifted my head, hoping it wouldn’t split open like a melon, and squinted at the clock.

&
nbsp; Seven o’clock. Who would be calling so early on a Sunday? I rolled to the edge of the mattress and reached for the receiver.

  “Yeah,” I grunted into the phone.

  “Hello, Ms. Fine,” the gravely female voice stated my name in an authoritative manner which had me sitting up at attention.

  “Yes. This is Trudie Fine.” My feet hit the floor and I trudged toward the bathroom.

  “Barbara Lewis here. I was a guest at the Schwartz party last night.”

  The party last night. Oh, shitake. Memories of last night’s events flooded into my consciousness—the body floating in the pool, the cops interrogating all the guests, Detective Goldman taking Zach to the station for questioning, and all the meticulously prepared dishes, dried up in their pans, burned in the oven. What a disaster. This woman must be calling to put me through the meat grinder.

  All I could manage to squeak out was, “Oh.”

  “Oh is right,” Barbara Lewis said. “Last night was just tragic. Poor Dana.” She clucked her tongue.

  I wanted to get this over with so I could get back into bed. “What can I do for you, Ms. Lewis?” Tucking the phone snugly between my jaw and shoulder, I opened the medicine cabinet, retrieved a bottle of Ibuprofen, and shook two of the small red tablets into my hand.

  “Ms. Fine, I know this is late notice, but I’d like you to cater a small dinner party for me on Saturday night. Are you free?”

  I froze, and the bottle fell out of my hand, pills skittering across the bathroom floor. Free? Sure I was free–for the next century. I scurried to the bedroom and grabbed my address book from the nightstand. “Let me consult my calendar a moment. Let’s see,” I ruffled the pages so the woman could hear. I didn’t want to seem too eager.

  “Yes. I just had a cancellation for this Saturday night,” I lied, wondering whether I really wanted to take on a new job. Sure, our dream was to build a clientele from the gathering of prominent guests at last night’s party. But that was before Mr. Schwartz died. Still reeling from the chaos of the night before, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to face another catering job. Zach and I had thrown every ounce of ourselves into the Schwartz party, only to have it all thrown back at us. Our entrees hadn’t even been served. We’d sapped our coffers of enthusiasm. Did we have anything left to take on a new gig?

  On the other hand, this was our livelihood. Acquiring new clients from the Schwartz party had been our pie-in-the-sky goal. That’s why I’d strategically placed our business cards at the bar and hors d’oeurves stations. Maybe this job was exactly what we needed.

  Something wasn’t quite right, though. “May I ask why you chose to call A Fine Fix? I mean, after last night’s disaster.” I slapped my hand to my forehead. Was I trying to sabotage my business?

  “Ms. Fine, I am perfectly aware that your catering service was not responsible for that horrible tragedy last night. My husband and I absolutely adored the hors d’oeuvres. And the aromas coming from the kitchen were amazing. We were so disappointed that we couldn’t sample all your dishes.”

  “Why, thank you, Mrs. Lewis.” I said, flattered but not completely buying her reasoning. “We’ll have to meet as soon as possible to plan your dinner menu. Do you have time this afternoon? I’ll also need to see how your kitchen is equipped.”

  “Certainly,” said Mrs. Lewis. “Let’s make it two o’clock, shall we?” She gave me her address and phone number. “Oh, and bring that nice-looking assistant of yours.”

  My first inclination after hanging up was to phone Zach. He wouldn’t believe that we had another job so soon. Then I remembered that I hadn’t gotten him home until two in the morning. He’d had a harrowing evening, even more so than me. I would let Zach sleep a little longer, I decided, before I hit him with the big surprise.

  IT HAD TAKEN all my self-control to wait until ten to call him with the news. He’d been as surprised and excited as I was.

  Zach stood outside his apartment building when I pulled up in the little orange Honda Civic I’d driven since college. He appeared thinner and paler to me in the bright sunlight. Maybe the two of us should head to Ocean City for a couple of days. We could tan on the beach and take a stroll on the boardwalk where I would ply him with funnel cakes and cheese fries to put some meat on his bones.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked, as he slipped into the passenger seat.

  “Okay.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m okay.”

  “By ‘okay’ do you mean you’re feeling good today or just ‘okay’ like tired and frazzled from last night?”

  “Trudie, will you stop? I feel fine. Enough already.”

  “Do you want to talk about it? About the police station, I mean?”

  He stared out the window. “Nothing happened at the police station. Goldman asked me the same questions he’d asked at the Schwartz house. What did I see when I set up for the party? Who was out by the pool? When did certain people arrive? That kind of thing.” He turned to me but again wouldn’t look me in the eye. “All right? Is my interrogation over now?”

  “I don’t understand why he had to drag you, of all people, down to the station if all he did was ask the same questions. It doesn’t make sense.”

  I glanced at Zach, but he continued to stare out his window and didn’t answer.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “let’s be happy. We have another gig.”

  Zach’s mood brightened at once, and he grinned. “I’m not sure which guest Barbara Lewis was, but I’m sure I’ll recognize her when I see her. Anyway,” he said, putting his hand up for a high five, “it looks like A Fine Fix is back in business.”

  After circling the block a few times, we squeezed into a space a block away from the Lewis’ enormous red brick townhouse in Georgetown. Outside the massive wrought iron gates at the front entrance, I pressed a button and announced our arrival through the speaker. The gates opened and then closed behind us as we entered. A woman I supposed was the housekeeper stood waiting at the front door.

  She seated us in what she called “the drawing room,” which looked more like a living room to me. I wondered what the difference was. And what does one do in a drawing room?

  Zach attempted to adjust himself on a chair that bore a close resemblance to a throne, its back reaching well above his head, with polished mahogany arms spaced too far apart for him to rest his own arms comfortably. I was directed to the “settee,” a needle-point fabric sofa that left my short legs swinging above the floor. I crossed them at the ankles. We looked like toddlers trying to fit into an adult world.

  “So nice to meet you both,” Barbara Lewis said, extending her hand to each of us when she entered the room. Zach and I stood to greet her and then awkwardly readjusted ourselves as we sat back down.

  I recognized Barbara Lewis right away as the woman who had calmed her husband and leaned in to kiss Mr. Schwartz at last night’s party. Close up now, she appeared regal at almost six feet tall, having no trouble reaching the floor as she sat in the wingback chair that matched the settee. She wore a cream-colored Chanel suit trimmed with black braiding, her honey-colored hair swept into a chignon.

  “I thought you were bringing your assistant,” she said.

  “This is my assistant, Zachary Cohen. My partner, actually.”

  “What about the young man with that nice smile?” She seemed disappointed.

  “Oh, you mean Bradley, the bartender I hired for the party. If you’d like, I’ll find out if he’s available to work your dinner party as well.” I did promise Bradley that I would hire him again, but I certainly would not mention why Mrs. Lewis wanted him there.

  “See that you do. He was so eager to help when Melvin asked him to go down to the wine cellar to find that bottle of Tempranillo for Mr. Lewis and me. Such a pity we didn’t get to taste it. That nasty business of Melvin in the pool.”

  Just thinking about the body floating in the pool, I shuddered. Zach and I glanced at each other, and I raised my eyebrows
and nodded as if to say, “See, Bradley was telling the truth.” I wondered what else our hostess had seen last night.

  “Tell me,” she continued, “Have the authorities discovered how he died?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered, moving forward in my seat to try to reach the tips of my toes to the floor. “I believe they questioned everyone at the party, and I suppose the medical examiner needs to do an autopsy to determine the cause of death.” At least, that’s what they do on TV crime shows, I thought. “That usually takes time.”

  “Poor Dana,” Barbara Lewis said, shaking her head. “I must call her to see if she needs anything.” She crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt. “Now, let’s get down to business. I’m planning an intimate dinner party for twenty on Saturday night. Let’s say, seven o’clock cocktails and eight-thirty dinner. It must be elegant, but not decadent, and of course Mr. Lewis limits his carbohydrates.”

  “Of course,” I repeated, scribbling notes in my day planner. I’d done the low-carb thing myself, and I knew exactly what to suggest. Barbara Lewis chose to start with cream of wild mushroom soup, charcoal-grilled, sliced London Broil with a duet of pureed root vegetables, sautéed Brussels sprouts, and brandy-poached pears with a cinnamon crème fraiche to finish.

  Zach asked to see the kitchen and dining area, and Barbara Lewis led the way. The kitchen was a chef’s dream, appointed with all the accoutrements of a commercial establishment. We wouldn’t need to bring any cooking utensils except, of course, the knives that I always carried with me.

  We paused as we passed through the butler’s pantry. My heart fluttered at the display of several different china patterns, more than enough place settings in each design along with complementary silver and glassware. This job would be much easier than most because we wouldn’t have to lug any equipment. The drawers contained an array of table linens in varying colors and fabrics, all with coordinating napkins.